


delight in decadence

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Worship, Crowley isn't good with his words but he's great with actions, Feeding, Gabriel's a wanker, Getting Together, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Headcanon, Insecurity, Introspection, M/M, Self-Reflection, Slender Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Stuffing, The Golden Girls - Freeform, WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FIC, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, slightly dub/con weight gain, tanking diets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-05 20:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Aziraphale has always been overfull, pleased, the cat that already had the crème-cake and then seconds. He’s never been honed hunger, someone who longs for life’s sweetness. The idea of Aziraphale thinning out… It’s curdling. The angel’s form should be generous like his personality. Warm and overfull.Or:Aziraphale sets sail on old indulgences to lose weight.Crowley is not on-board with this. He’s more like the iceberg in this scenario.





	1. delight in duplicity

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I love how this fandom has embraced soft Aziraphale. It means everything to me. Please accept this kinky offering.
> 
> And for anyone looking for the superkinky stuff i suggest chapter 3.

Crowley exits his Bently and enters the butter glow of St. James Park around three pm. The poor weather that marked the early morning has cleared away, leaving a picturesque afternoon in its wake. Crowley wouldn’t know; he was asleep ‘til an hour ago.

Feeling drained from recent politics, he did the only rational thing of napping for a few months. No one needs his help to do evil unto one another with the political climate like this. He can’t remember which side invented Brexit or if it’s some human fueled nightmare. The waking world isn’t as changed as he’d like but facing it with a few month’s sleep makes it bearable. He was worried about going off-grid, considering that he and Aziraphale only bested heaven and hell a mere 30 odd years ago, but Aziraphale assured him that he would float completely under the radar and live as milquetoast as a book dealer in Soho can.

Aziraphale is always fine on his own, of course. They’ve spent millennia developing tastes and interests and an admirable collection of fierce preferences. A few months is a drop in the pond. Indeed, they’ve sometimes gone years without seeing the other quite on accident, just wrapped up in their daily lives and the odd job from up and downstairs. Nowadays any odd jobs are completely _pro bono_, but that doesn’t mean Crowley has stopped messing with pop-up ads or tempting someone to cut ahead in a queue. He rather enjoys life’s little displeasures. Aziraphale can’t seem to help himself from adding extra air into bike tires and funding ad-blockers. Crowley supposes they’ve just been themselves too long to stop.

Though during this break, Aziraphale will have known better than to do anything too noticeable. If Aziraphale settled into a good series he might have spent half the time parked on his couch miracling food between line breaks, Crowley muses, as he reaches the guard rail around the lake. His elbows creep to rest atop the metal and he weaves a bit of wile through the iron. The next couple to lean against the barricade in hunt of the perfect selfie would soon find themselves very wet and dazed, the bars popped clean off the concrete.

A grin curls across his mouth. He enjoys tailoring trouble to the generation. Tripping texters on the just-so uneven road creates wonderful whorls of misery for several days after, depending on the phone/hand damage.

“Your horns are showing.” A warm presence settles beside him along the bars. “I shouldn’t like to know what you’re imagining.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley allows his smirk to broaden as he meets the clear blue eyes of his compatriot. The angel’s smile is as beatific as he remembers, and the familiarity soothes. The realization that the grin is more tooth than cheek jars him to a stop. His eyes jerk down, then up.

“Have you lost weight?” he asks, drawing back.

Aziraphale pinkens before tugging on his suit lapels. Far from loafing around the couch for three months, the angel instead looks like he’s been exercising regularly. All over, a layer or two of padding has gone missing. The curve of his face is less, revealing the hint of cheekbones to be more than myth. The flared hips lesser, and his arms seem to have lost some heft. His chest is smooth and his stomach only just edges from his vest. “I’ve been trying to care of my corporation more,” he replies at length.

Crowley blinks. Aziraphale must have been dieting for near the entire time of his slumber for results like these. “Why?” he asks. “It’s not like we’re prone to disease like the rest of this lot.”

“Well, current trends are leaning away from corpulence—”

“And I thought angels were above vanity,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale makes a moue of disapproval. The oft-given look on slimmer cheekbones is much sterner than the padded glance of before. Crowley goggles at sudden unfamiliarity.

“Gabriel also mentioned something of how I rather let this corporation run to seed. I thought it over and I realized he’s right. It simply had to stop,” Aziraphale says.

“I only have one argument.” Crowley holds a finger up in askance for patience. A nudge and an advertisement airplane intended to sketch a proposal for Sarah Dean finds itself skating out GABRIEL’S A WANKER in the sky behind Crowley.

Aziraphale blinks as it starts, but by the ‘w’ he huffs a laugh. His grinning eyes chase the rest of the appearing letters as he says, “Be that as it may, whatever the reason, I’ve decided to try something else than my usual routine for the moment,” Aziraphale finishes.

Crowley can’t fault his counterpart for that. He himself has gone through many hairstyles under various pretenses (vanity being his favorite). “Yeah, ‘course,” he says. There’s a pause, awkwardness, and he goes to change venues but stops himself. He always just offers dinner, or lunch or scones but now… “I suppose that means dinner at the Ritz is off,” he says slowly.

At once a flash of something like _hunger_ flies through Aziraphale’s clear eyes before being reigned in. “Not completely, just sparingly,” Aziraphale says. “I’d be just as pleased to enjoy an evening constable with you, or the opera instead. _Die Fledermaus_ is on and I thought we could get tickets this week.”

Crowley agrees and they make it Wednesday. Aziraphale has plans later this evening, but he tells Crowley to drop by the shop whenever to pick up his menagerie of plants. “Give you a lift?” Crowley offers.

Aziraphale hesitates a moment before giving a quick shake of his head. “That’s quite alright. I’m getting very fond of walking, thank you.” Crowley accepts this change and places it among the steadily growing collection in his mind. “Again, so glad to see you topside, my dear,” Aziraphale says before turning and revealing a much slimmer backside as he exits the park.

Crowley turns away from his counterpart’s exit and looks out over the duck pond. He considers the new developments. And that there are any developments from Aziraphale is rather new. Aziraphale is an angel slow to change. He’s cultivated a particularity about his clothes and manner, and thus, when he finds something he truly likes, he is slow to surrender it. He wore fine, kitten-heeled men’s shoes for a large part of the 19th century, a holdover from the 18th and would not fully bury them until loafers came into vogue.

Crowley understands; fashion is a quick and nightmarish machine fueled only by the human mind. He wishes he could have invented a concept that renders warehouses of clothing utterly “unwearable” for merely being out of season, but there are humans for you, always visionary. (Not to say he doesn’t take credit for it.)

Just like fashion, ideal body shape changes often depending on era and geography. At times, Aziraphale’s corpulence was incredibly fashionable and Crowley’s thinness was thought unhealthy and unsightly. It just happens that this geographic iteration of humanity believes slimness the peak of health. Never mind that health isn’t a factor for two immortals. Neither of them has ever changed their weight for human opinions before. Until now.

Something uneasy rattles in his stomach and Crowley finds himself wondering why it bothers him. So Aziraphale is slimming down. What’s it to do with him?

Part of it probably has to do with the flash of hunger. An unfamiliar thing to see on Aziraphale… Surely Aziraphale has indulged in human food _some_ since he went under, right? Denial of life’s richness rings too similarly to the asceticism of angels who drop by the earth every other millennium or so to say no for no’s sake. Keeping the _celestial temples _of their corporation pure. Aziraphale had never been like that. He was the first between the two of them to delve into foodie-ism eons before the term was even invented. As a consequence of regular overburdening of his corporation, he’d filled out little by little before reaching some kind of hefty plateau. Crowley can barely remember the thin version, to be honest. By Rome, he was the plush version of Crowley’s recent memory.

Yes, Aziraphale has always been overfull, pleased, the cat that already had the crème-cake and then seconds, if you will. He’s never been honed hunger, someone who longs for life’s sweetness. The idea of Aziraphale thinning out with eyes growing larger and hungrier as the rest of him shrivels away… It’s curdling to Crowley. The angel’s form should be generous, like his personality. Warm and overfull, not the chill of thinness that Crowley knows. He knows it as he knows slipping from grace, an absence that can never be filled with anything. But _Aziraphale _has never known that, and never will with all his sweet puttering and gentle focus. He shouldn’t _strive _for hunger. He should be…

Images flicker through Crowley’s mind. Innumerable instances where they’ve been nude around each other, the roman baths, _onsen_ in Japan, one memorable occasion involving a nudist colony. And one, subtle, yet more memorable encounter in a workshop.

Sometime after the arrangement but before they were regular dining companions, Crowley dropped by to see if Leonardo was up to anything interesting while his master, Verrocchio, was out. He plowed through to the workshop only to find Aziraphale naked on the couch, being sketched by the artist.

Crowley had frozen at the surprise, but his eyes were still working, and they wandered over Aziraphale. Plump hands dangling over the settee leading to thick forearms and round shoulders. Crowley’s eyes darted down, chased the weighty calves to an overflow of hip before tripping over the soft cock nestled between supple thighs that were seamed together by an overabundance of dimpled flesh. His buttocks pooled and swelled beneath him and his stomach was shifted by gravity to skate over his thighs and nearly hang off the side. Aziraphale’s chest had just enough give to catch the shadows and he lingered on slightly overfilled nipples before meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

Only seconds passed before he said, “Whoops. Come back later, shall I?” and snagging a wine bottle, he left. Later, Aziraphale crowed in his modest way about how the artist was seeking angelic inspiration (though when they saw the Annunciation, they were disappointed. “Must have gone another direction,” Aziraphale sniffed). There was nothing particularly embarrassing about that interaction. Corporation is corporation, neither of them are designed to _feel _shame or desire unless they intend it. Yes, it should have been an encounter like any other… but every valley and swell of the supine angel is somehow tucked in the back of Crowley’s mind. At this moment, they rise, and he finds it comforting.

_That’s_ how Aziraphale should be. Never hungry. Always sated. Plush, inviting, and warm. He thinks about how the angel must look now, stomach curling in, (ribs maybe visible!) and he shudders.

And really, Aziraphale’s indulgence is one reason the angel is enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.

So, while acknowledging that it really isn’t any of his damn business, Crowley still decides that he should tank the angel’s diet. For his own sake, and the benefit of entrepreneurial restaurateurs everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more kinky stuff is ahead~
> 
> First good omens fic so I'd love any spare comments and thoughts. ❤️


	2. delight in development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan is really very simple; feed Aziraphale.
> 
> Little more could be added beyond this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blown away by the support everyone. Thank you SO MUCH.

The plan is really very simple; feed Aziraphale.

Little more could be added beyond this.

There are some barriers. Crowley can’t directly act upon Aziraphale without his noticing. He can’t tempt the angel the way he would a human. That doesn’t really matter. Aziraphale _knows _how good food is (likely better than anyone). It’s just a matter of pushing the limits of his self-restraint, and the edges of his stomach will follow. Since he can’t tempt Aziraphale from a distance, he’ll have to put in the hours for this himself.

Each offering, every calorie, all the food will be picked and presented by his hands. Some part of that sends a little wiggle down his spine, but he can’t place the reasoning. Just enjoying a little temptation, he supposes... Though he’ll likely grow weary of Aziraphale’s tediousness at length. He reminds himself that sticking it out will pay off with the return of a cheerful (and round) angel. With that in mind, he researches wine calorie content.

*

Crowley swings by the shop with a bottle of red the next day.

Aziraphale blinks at him from the couch. “Back again, Crowley?” Indeed, Crowley already came by for his plants two hours earlier. Now, it’s dinner time. Normally, Aziraphale wouldn’t be in the shop. Instead, he’d be patronizing some of the incredible food of downtown London, or anywhere, really. Crowley finds himself fretting whether the angel is eating _anything. _(Crowley himself doesn’t, but he’s _Crowley._)

“Found a great shiraz,” he says, brushing aside his concern. It’s the usual excuse to drink well into the evening together. Aziraphale takes the bottle in hand, eyeing the label in a pleased way before hesitating, a frown stealing over his face.

“I know you’re dieting, but you’re not blocking liquids too, are you?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale gives him a wan, (dare he say _gaunt) _smile. “All things in moderation, my dear.”

Crowley groans. That’s just the sort of awful temperance he’s hoping to reduce. “Well, moderate a few drinks with me.” He gives the angel an expectant look and twists two glasses into existence.

There’s a moment’s pause which Crowley pretends is normal. Aziraphale whispers “Moderation,” under his breath, a note to himself this time. As though he deserves chastisement from _anyone. _Aziraphale uncorks the bottle and pours.

Crowley holds his glass out and they tap together with a clear sound. Aziraphale tips his glass back and there’s a long appreciative sound from around the rim. “My, this is a very nice shiraz,” Aziraphale comments, dabbing his mouth. He sips again, deep, and there’s a brightness to his eyes, something dry slaked and Crowley can’t keep the grin from unfurling.

He only manages to get three glasses down Aziraphale before the other cries off for calorie content. Crowley doesn’t push it, there will be time for that.

The next day, Crowley shows up again at dinner with wine and they chat and while the time. Four glasses are drunk, and the dank hunger is swept away again by smooth indulgence. Yeah, Crowley met Pavlov. He has this in the bag.

He repeats for two more days, and on the fifth, he brings a small cheese sampler. It’s the kind of stupid fig-pâté-kalamata-compote nonsense that Aziraphale regularly extols. Crowley indulges such rants but is rarely tempted. He eats sparingly, finding no real pleasure in the activity. Not like Aziraphale, who now leans forward with large eyes. His throat works, helpless contractions against a modest but tailored spread.

Crowley’s hand clenches. It doesn’t _do_, Aziraphale being so damned _hungry._

“My dear,” he murmurs, eyes only flickering to Crowley. “This is lovely. Is that a fig compote? …But I shouldn’t—”

“Oh, I thought something small like this wouldn’t be, you know, untoward,” Crowley says, shrugging. “Could always toss it in the rubbish I suppose. I don’t have much use for it.” Aziraphale gapes.

“Now, that’s simply wasteful! You must allow me to demonstrate its virtues.” Aziraphale bites his lip. “It is rather small… Oh, and you will have some, won’t you?”

“‘Course. Can’t leave a fig compote alone, me.” Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Oh, excellent! Let me make you something up.” Now-slender hands scrap a bit of pâté, compote, and a sliver of brie onto a cracker and present it before Crowley who accepts it and makes vaguely yummy sounds. Aziraphale smiles and then with less sure hands makes a duplicate for himself, smaller servings as if he wants Crowley to be angry.

There’s a moment when it hovers between his hand and his mouth and Crowley realizes Aziraphale _hasn’t_ eaten a damn thing since Crowley went under. Real anger boils and then pops as Aziraphale’s tongue sneaks out to lip the edge of the cracker. It breaches his mouth and his eyelashes flutter shut. A moan meanders from his chewing mouth and when he opens his eyes again the blue is bright and gleaming. “Yes, that was, mmm, a wonderful choice my dear. Allow me, allow me to make you another.”

For each cracker Crowley half-heartedly eats (and sometimes vanishes), he gets to watch, rapt, as eyes fall shut and delight pools beside soft sighs. Something tight and wound-up at his spine loosens and he uncurls languidly over the couch. Yes, this pleasure belongs here; it should never be denied.

As Aziraphale’s eyes shut again over edam and kalamata, Crowley wiles more crackers and cheese onto the platter.

*

Aziraphale has conceded to solid food, so every night Crowley brings platter upon platter of thinly veiled temptation, but the angel manages to curb his grazing and keep his portions woefully small. Crowley never imagined Aziraphale could resist food, and he’s impressed even as he uses every distraction to wile more food on the angel’s plate. It’s an effective method, but not efficient. Aziraphale is still losing weight, using exercise to push the calories into the negative. That he exercises at all was something of a shock.

(“You. _You_ exercise?”

“Come now, it’s very much the thing to do. And they have all sorts of lovely gear now, special shirts and socks—”

“In tartan.”

“My dear. How _did _you guess?”)

Even though he’s slowed the loss, it’s not enough for Crowley, who aches at the revelation of protruding clavicles. The solution, he realizes, is to present the angel with more opportunities for temptation. Even with eating small portions, if there are enough small meals, they may well equal large ones. Crowley just has to put more time and effort into being around Aziraphale and offering more food.

The following morning, he shows up with a couple of _viennoiseries _from a boulangerie in Brittany and apple juice from Fujisaki. At teatime, he snaps cucumber and bacon butties into existence before having a kip. Lunch is vegetable curry and thick naan via the shop down the street, followed by dinner at the Ritz and one serving of crème cake that mysteriously never seems to end.

Even eating modest servings (with Crowley buffing the size), it’s enough for Aziraphale to grunt and place his hand over his expanded stomach at the end of the day. After barely snacking for weeks, his metabolism startles awake. Aziraphale looks down at his bloated stomach, and Crowley can see the calculations flying through his mind, justifications and admonishments. But Crowley is prepared. The next morning Crowley reveals Aziraphale’s favorite _tarte Tatin_, still faintly steaming, and relishes the swift word Aziraphale’s small fork makes of it. Lunch, tea, afternoon snack and dinner all follow suit like tumbling dominos. At the end of the day, the angel’s stomach presses against his vest, bloated and sluggishly digesting. His hand runs over it, discouraged and confused, but he doesn’t turn down the marzipan _börek _the following breakfast. Because Crowley, for all his disinterest in gastronomy, always listens and indulges his angel anyway. He always knows just the thing to turn Aziraphale’s self-control to pudding. The way his stomach creeps further and further out every day is a testament to that.

Crowley rinses, repeats, and lathers again and realizes a few months later that he hasn’t been in his apartment longer than three hours a day.

That… should bother him more than it does. He assumed that he would have to fight constant weariness from Aziraphale’s tediousness, but he finds it isn’t what he thought. Aziraphale is excellent at giving him space. He runs his shop and reads extensively, leaving Crowley to nap or set up a few wiles outside the shop. Aziraphale looks on disapprovingly, but when it proves instrumental in diverting potential customers, he lets it slide with a quirk of a smile that is perhaps less cheekbone than before.

They still go to art shows and Albert Hall and open mics and all the rest. They start the night drinking in the shop and then they come back to drink more, arguing the virtues and failings of whatever the humans have churned out. On that count, not much has changed, but as Crowley stretches across the aged yet plush couch for a kip, listening to the slow, meticulous typing of Aziraphale on the computer, he’s struck by how cohesive their new lot feels. Tomorrow, Crowley will wake up and take a spin around the world to collect the most tempting croissants. After misting/holding court with his plants, he’ll appear before Aziraphale, who will likely still be at the computer just dustier around the shoulders. And the next day if he wants to, he can do much the same, and Aziraphale will still twist ‘round to smile and put ineffective blankets over his legs as he naps. For _somebody’s_ sake, it is somewhat-rather-sort-of nice.

Crowley also didn’t realize how many times a day before all this something would happen, and he’d think “I’ll tell Aziraphale later.” Now he just looks up from the texter sprawled out on the kerb, nursing wounded hands, and turns to holler inside the shop. It’s the damndest thing.

(“My dear, look at the bloodstains on the pavement. You’ve been absolutely camping here! I for one shan’t be surprised if this becomes a homing beacon for bad luck.”

“Yeah, and it’s right in front of your shop too.”

“Oh! that’s true. It’s certainly not ideal, but if it happens...”

“This one totally swanned down, let me show you the video again, angel. Completely ignored his head and cradled the phone like a baby.”)

An unexpected benefit to always hanging around is that he interrupts Aziraphale’s exercise routine. Instead of jogging in the morning, Crowley will ask to tag along for a walk instead. Gelato carts, crepe stands, and waffle trucks seem to just _find _them. Any exercise gained from circling the park a few times is net loss when the walker has a waffle in one hand and _stracciatella_ in the other. Aziraphale seems bewildered by the sudden prominence of sweet stops along his usual route, but it just takes a nudge from Crowley, a “Go on._ Enjoy_ yourself, angel” and Aziraphale will order “Just one scoop” for the way back and accept it into his plumper hands.

Aziraphale tries to fight back against his indulgence with nighttime jogging, but Crowley already set-up a contrivance for that. Usually, Crowley binges Golden Girls alone to spike deviant creativity, but now he draws up a television and the instant he sees Aziraphale glancing outside at the decent, jog-worthy weather, he invites his friend to join him. Biscuits, popcorn and whatever other comestibles pop up on commercials accompany the ensuing marathon. Aziraphale crows over the women and critiques them as food mindlessly makes its way into his mouth and Crowley feels content not just because he’s interrupting exercise, but something that also has to do with shared warmth on the couch.

And then, sometimes, the marathon ends amid the early hours of a new day and everything is quiet. The shop goes dark without the telly, but that’s never been a problem for Crowley who watches Aziraphale roll his neck against the couch and release a soft hum. They don’t speak, just linger a few hours in shared silence. A mere molecule in the bucket of their lives, but it soothes some lingering discontent that even three months of sleep couldn’t resolve for Crowley. Sometimes, he just gets frustrated with living, so he turns it off for a while. It’s benign, doesn’t hurt anyone, and it’s necessary to keep his head on right. But… whatever these moments are with Aziraphale, they relieve that pressure, take him to a time and place and a garden where the world was a little quieter, and a demon could take shelter from a storm…

The feeling leaves him overwhelmed, but in a good way? Healthy or something. It’s enough that Crowley ends up impulse buying midnight snacks from trendy late-night outfits to be delivered before rolling over on the couch and drifting off to steady typing.

In this way, with Crowley loitering around the shop from 6 am to 3 am (and sometimes whole stretches of weeks) Aziraphale starts gaining back the weight. Softness invades his stomach first, settling into old places and pushing his cream vest further up and out. His arms assume more space in the sleeves, leading to hands that have breached chubby and border dimpled. Cheeks bloom, regaining their curve and easing any admonishments leaving Aziraphale’s lips. His thighs rise like bread baking in the oven, and his arse brims from shapely to utterly round. His hips have regained their hefty flourish, leading to impacts with shelves and books as Aziraphale readjusts to a wider size. With each collision, a red flush steals over his round face. He glances up sharply, searching for Crowley, who always pretends not to have noticed.

(In reality, Crowley’s photographing each instance. His former-side invented scrapbooking, after all.)

Crowley knows Aziraphale is feeling frustrated with his pudding-like self-control, and he is vaguely sorry about that. But Aziraphale doesn’t _need_ that dietary self-control, doesn’t need to cultivate hunger. He’s so much better at indulging; his lashes fluttering, small moans, and a stomach creeping out to repose on lush thighs. One way or another, Crowley will help Aziraphale understand that.

He keeps course and Aziraphale’s hands stroke an overfilled, bloating stomach each evening, only to find it softer and plusher in the morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *  
I'm sorry this is soppy and kinky I don't know what the hell my brain was thinking. 
> 
> Final chapter in a few days or so. It's got some sexy times and 'heavy' kink ahead so stay tuned❣️
> 
> Leave a note if you like❣️


	3. delight in decadence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley could cut back, but he doesn’t; he _relishes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> °˖ ✧◝(○＾ヮ＾○)◜✧˖ ° I am OVERWHELMED by the support! Thank you for every kind word!!!
> 
> Dead ahead: Heavy feeding kink and dubious negotiation of it. Avert course if necessary.
> 
> Also: Excessive head canons and character introspection for a kink fic (who-am-i-someone-left-the-door-unlocked-and-i-wandered-out).

A year passes, and it’s a smooth, easy year (another year away from the 14th century, thank somebody). For Crowley this means copious mild misdeeds, the utter misuse of wiles, and Aziraphale. Every day, Aziraphale. But nothing is perfect and around the time Aziraphale is closing in on his former weight, Crowley, even with millennia of experience, makes a critical error.

He can hardly stand the disappointed and dismayed look painted over Aziraphale’s round face, the way he sighs and looks upward as if expecting divine explanation. Crowley tries to justify himself. “I just meant to help!”

“You think this is helping!” Aziraphale rubs his forehead. “Not a bite shall pass these lips!”

“Angel…”

“No, I mean it, Crowley.” Aziraphale crosses his arms. “You ordered _pear _and_ apple_ on _tomato marinara_?”

“You told me pear and apple were great on pizza!” Crowley complains.

“With a balsamic reduction and an olive oil base. Really, my dear, the tomato will overwhelm the delicate fruit and then where would we be?”

Crowley can’t pretend to make heads or tails of it. “Well, I already ordered it.”

“Cancel the order,” Aziraphale says.

“Oh, come on—”

“Cancel it! And get your blazer.” Aziraphale tightens his bow tie. “I’ll show you proper pizza. Just for tonight, and then it’s back on the diet for me… Honestly, tomato and pear!”

Crowley, jacket in one hand, blinks and finds the two of them seated at a pizza parlor in, based off the language, Italy’s heartland. He stares wide-eyed as Aziraphale orders four pizzas and forces Crowley to eat a slice of each before handily consuming each and every morsel of the rest.

“Really my dear,” Aziraphale says, hand stroking over his overfull stomach. “Isn’t this so much better?”

Crowley supposes so, though he can’t help but goggle with delight. Even if it is only for one night, he likes seeing Aziraphale reaching and taking what he wants, so natural and guiltless.

Except it isn’t just that night. The following morning, Aziraphale comes downstairs to find Crowley with three poppyseed muffins, and then promptly eats all three after eyeing Crowley’s which had only been picked at. For elevensies, they have sandwiches, but Aziraphale passes by the sweets shop he used to regularly patronize and collects a small assortment of cakes to eat as well. The whole spread ends up in Aziraphale’s stomach. For lunch, they enjoy fish and chips and have a pre-dinner wine session and then dinner at the Ritz. Aziraphale orders two deserts and eats most of Crowley’s food too after wheedling and making eyes at the pasta dish.

Crowley is gobsmacked by the sudden display of gluttony. Aziraphale across from him, one hand on his distended stomach, eyes alit with the culinary delights he conquered, and oh, Crowley is gobsmacked but so, so satisfied… The next day goes much the same and Crowley stops pretending to consume food as Aziraphale is quite capable of dealing with it himself. Suddenly, the initiative is back in Azriaphale’s hands, and Crowley couldn’t be happier following each whim and craving. Aziraphale always has known where the best, most luxuriant cuisine dwells.

Crowley should stop wiling more food onto his friend’s plate, should stop making butties and bringing lavish breakfasts, but he’s fallen just as much to Pavlov as Aziraphale. Morning isn’t morning unless he’s across the angel with a cup of tea, watching him greet morning dew by cooing over Danishes. He could watch Golden Girls alone, but it’s better with the angel there working his way through a collection of vittles. Dinner is over candlelight and punctuated by long conversation and seven courses. Crowley only ever has coffee, but he enjoys the conversation and the steady glow of Aziraphale’s culinary appreciation. He likes their pattern… and he likes feeding Aziraphale.

Yes, he’s always enjoyed watching the angel eat, even before the great mess of his asceticism. Now things have sprung back to their starting point, and the angel moans and curls and sometimes goes incredibly, incredibly still as food passes his lips. His eyes brim and spill with pleasure in his indulgence and so much of it is fueled by _Crowley _and the food he supplies, the perfect _Kouign Amanns_ and best compotes.

Crowley could cut back, but he doesn’t; he _relishes._

Aziraphale’s former plateau is reached, rested upon for a few weeks, and then swiftly overpassed.

Crowley watches with keen golden eyes as Aziraphale’s weight climbs higher and higher and he becomes even more voluptuous and corpulent than before.

He catches Aziraphale glancing over himself in a stray reflection of glass and he sees lips curve down, his hands chase over the burgeoning expanse of his stomach that is beginning to hang instead of sticking perkily out. He looks displeased but not depressed. Crowley takes the pastry box out of the fridge and sets it onto the counter before taking a nap. When he wakes, the turnovers are naught but crumbs.

*

They’re dining at the Ritz. Or rather, Aziraphale is dining at the Ritz and Crowley is consuming the coffee, wine, and Aziraphale’s decadent little exhales. The angel is downright cherubic at this point, a sweet, pudgy face and overfull fingers. His chest peaks out, though his sweater keeps secret the intimate details of his pectoral gain. His stomach sprawls into his thighs which rub together whenever he finds a particularly delightful combination. Crowley watches and is satisfied. Later tonight, they’ll finish up the sixth season of Golden Girls and he’ll happily sit through all of Aziraphale’s hand wringing over the revelations, even though this is their third watch-through. (“A bookkeeper for the Mafia! Really, my dear, I thought she had such taste.”)

The angel in question sets the small, silver fork down, having eaten his third dessert of the evening. His eyes are glossy with delight and he looks so well-fed and content Crowley can’t help the slow, curling smile. Aziraphale folds his hands atop his stomach. “My dear, I wonder if you were intending to spend the night in the shop once more.”

Crowley swirls the remaining coffee in his cup as he says, “Yeah, thought we might finish up the season of Golden Girls.”

“And then kip on the couch?” Aziraphale supplies.

“Might do. You buy very comfortable things,” Crowley says.

“They’ve made such improvements, haven’t they? Couches are much better than those backless benches and stools from before… now when was that, fifteenth century?”

“Sixteenth, though you were on the cutting edge early on, so it hardly counts.”

“Well, I don’t like being uncomfortable,” Aziraphale reasons.

“I don’t like that either,” Crowley replies, maybe too meaningfully. He averts his eyes to some dim couple in his periphery. Sitting for too long has him out of sorts. Arms crane up for a long indolent stretch. Something small cracks and resettles and he sprawls over the seat once more. He looks up and finds Aziraphale’s keen gaze trained on him, cheeks ruddy. The angle glances down, only to cut a look up and flush further. Really, what on earth…?

“My dear… have you, have you ever thought about turning _it _on?”

Crowley stops swirling his coffee. He stares, even going so far as to lift his glasses to bore down into the now-fidgeting angel. _It, _of course, refers to the divine and profane mechanism that makes their beings lack any concept of sexuality. Like all mechanisms, _it _has an on and off switch. Crowley’s has always been off, and he assumes the same of Aziraphale, particularly as the angel looks fit to invent a new shade of red at merely uttering _it_ aloud. Oh, they’ve talked about sex, with sexual temptations and “heavenly couplings” being a common order up and downstairs, but it was always humans, never to do with them. Being above (or below) sexuality is their default. He leans forward because it seems Aziraphale wants… Something, certainly.

Crowley sets the coffee cup into the saucer and raises his sunglasses to rest atop his head. “Sorry, what are you saying? Have you… have you seen someone who… sparked something?” Vague terms are the only way he can frame a concept for which he has no reference for. He thinks of possible candidates and bites his cheek. He knew the delivery man was loitering around too much to be normal. He just assumed he was caught up in Aziraphale’s general divine ‘ish’ that draws the occultly sensitive. He should have realized—

“Not someone, well, that is to say rather some_demon_ would be more accurate,” Aziraphale confesses, and confesses is the only word for how utterly embarrassed and earnest as the angel is. Crowley’s mouth falls open but Aziraphale plows on. “Now, we’re two reasonable beings who can discuss this like adults. I’ve been thinking about adding a physical element to our relationship. There it is. I just wanted to start the conversation and relay my interest. Even though… even though I am sure there may be many reasons you might wish not to.”

“But why would you want to at all?!” Crowley asks, trying not to sound so bewildered and failing.

“Oh, my dear, many reasons. We’ve both been under the thumbs of heaven and hell. I never even imagined taking part in copulation. But I never imagined walking in the snow, or the pleasure of forgetting an umbrella when it drizzles. We… we can do anything we want,” he says, a whispered truth. Free will, to an angel.

“We can… but with me?”

“Well, who else?” Aziraphale says. He cuts Crowley a sharp look under his lashes as he squirms. “I wouldn’t want to with just anyone. I honestly thought if we spent too much time together you would irk me to pieces! But these past couple years have been… nice. We still have our space, but it’s rather wonderful seeing you about the shop and tripping the poor dears outside. Watching television with you and having someone to sit with in the morning hours. I realized I really do trust you, my dear. And I would trust you with this too.” Crowley’s gobsmacked even as pleasure unfolds in his chest. Aziraphale, flushing more, says, “And you do have a certain way about you.”

“A way,” Crowley echoes.

“You, you _slink_, and _slide,_” he says, hands fluttering. “You spread over furniture and move so light-footedly it’s like dancing. And I feel very pleased watching these things and I thought it might… It might be nice to also…” He gestures vaguely before his hands fall into his abundant lap.

Crowley can’t hide the heat he feels in his face, suddenly aware of his slouched, spread posture and to know Aziraphale’s eyes have rested on him for so long, and still do now… Clear blue flickers up and down the bend of him. A shiver works over his body at Aziraphale’s daring. They aren’t even drunk!

“This is, of course, only if you want to. And I understand that there might be many reasons that you might not want to,” Aziraphale says again, hand on his stomach.

Crowley tries to think of it, tries to picture the two of them having sex and it seems weird, but it doesn’t seem bad. He imagines wringing the glaze of pleasure and small moans from Aziraphale himself and something along his spine sparks. Yeah, it’s worth trying. Worst case scenario it’s horrible, but then they can just flip the desire off, decide it was weird (but no weirder than the incident in the nudist colony and the seven babies), and then be on their way. The thing about beating the apocalypse and heaven and hell is that once two people do that, there really isn’t anything to be afraid of between them.

Crowley tamps down uncertainty and lets a smile flicker over his mouth. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

Aziraphale goes very still before a smile of his own builds and dimples his wide cheeks. Yes, it might be worth it just to see how lush the angel’s grown under Crowley’s care.

Eager now, he flips an excess of bills on the table and, with a wave, they’re in Crowley’s bedroom, the Bently parked neatly in its garage. A large, sleek bed with black sheets compliments the modern, spartan décor. The angel blinks, bewildered, before turning on Crowley as the demon sidles up.

“So how do you want to do this? Both turn _it_ on on three?” Crowley asks.

“I—I didn’t mean we should do it now!” Aziraphale exclaims, jolting away. “I meant, I wanted to open the conversation.”

“Oh.” Crowley admits some disappointment. “Well, when were you thinking? I have time Friday?”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Two… no three months from now.”

Crowley stares. “You’re joking.” He never considered sex before tonight (not seriously) but he’s really come around to the idea in the past few minutes.

“Oh, perhaps four even,” Aziraphale says, looking wretched and guilty and Crowley doesn’t care. With a hand fluttering to his brimming hips, the angel says, “It’ll take me that long to get into, well, _some _svelte shape.”

His throat feels parched as he hisses, “_What?!”_

“I— I don’t know how this primal desire operates!” Aziraphale exclaims. “You might find my excessive corpulence extremely off-putting! Then where will we be?”

“We don’t know that,” Crowley says, voice weak. He’s rather sure it might be the other way around. The precise explanation of his feelings slips around his slitted tongue, hard to mouth, so he says no more.

“Have you ever turned_ it_ on before?” Aziraphale demands.

He thought about it (those orgies seemed so relaxing … and messy), but “No,” he admits.

“Me neither,” Aziraphale says. “I have an inkling of what I suppose I might find appealing. And in respect for your desire, oh… I just want to give this the best possible chance.” The thin Aziraphale flashes in his memory and Crowley’s mouth falls open, the horror of his boniness, gaping, yawning hunger—

“This is what you starved yourself about?” Crowley realized.

“I wasn’t starving. We don’t need to eat,” Aziraphale says.

“You were _hungry,_” Crowley accuses and Aziraphale flushes.

“Well, yes, but it was alright, dear. I was doing so well, and I thought I could lose a little more before suggesting this, but I’m so bad at denying myself around you.” Aziraphale looks down embarrassed and disappointed. Crowley feels like the pleasure of Aziraphale all those months, all those naughty feedings, all of it lives in his chest right now. The angel continues, unaware. “I wasn’t even going to mention it, but you looked simply lovely tonight and it slipped out. If you give me a little time I’ll slim—”

“We’re doing it tonight,” Crowley avers.

“Must we?” Aziraphale whines.

“Absolutely.”

Aziraphale’s hands flutter for a second, folding on the stand of his stomach before jerking away and wringing “Well if you’re quite sure…”

The words may escape him, but Crowley’s always been better at action anyways. He raises a hand and Aziraphale’s eyes widen. The instant Crowley waves, a snap sounds from the angel. Crowley’s clothes are wiled away, and Aziraphale’s too, but a tartan blanket has covered the angel instead. Aziraphale staggers back, falling onto the bed.

“You’re really not giving this a fair shake,” Aziraphale protests, scooting back in his makeshift wrap.

“Oh, I’m giving this the best shake possible. Now, I’m turning _it_ on on three. Ready? One.”

Aziraphale watches him inching closer, extra sway in Crowley’s narrow hips.

“Two. Are you with me? You want this or not, angel?”

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut. “That was never the question, my dear! Of course, I’m with you!”

Crowley grins. “Three.” They flip _it _on. Aziraphale gasps and Crowley blinks hard, trying to settle the new processes. He’s naked, he _realizes _for the first time. The cool air of his apartment flits over his skin, making it feel taut and tingly. His penis is dangly, sensitive even. His eyes fall shut as he cranes and stretches his back, feeling the cricks and knobs of bones knocking against each other. Opening his eyes, he finds Aziraphale wrapped in tartan on the bed, eyeing him like a particularly decadent pastry.

“Oh, we can’t do this,” Aziraphale moans. “If you’re anything like me— in your preferences. My dear, you’re so lovely in your slenderness, your fine-boned shoulders, oh dear.” Crowley stalks forward, he can see wiggling and can just picture vast thighs rubbing together.

But ah, he doesn’t have to picture. He stalks forward, relishing the sensation of Aziraphale’s glossy eyes tracing his sway and step. He gets onto the bed, spreading himself forward in slinky gestures, snaking towards the angel who makes little overwhelmed utterances.

“Let’ssssss sseee you, angel.”

They meet eyes, both very aware of Aziraphale’s bright red face. If they hadn’t spent two years with each other, maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t have slowly released the tartan edge. He still covers his eyes, fingers slitted enough to watch as Crowley licks his lips and reaches for the edge and pulls.

Ohh, his short angel is _well-fed_. Plump arms squeezing little rolls against his sides. His curved chest with heavy, fleshy nipples perky and pebbling beneath his intent eyes. His stomach brims, just beginning to form two distinct rolls atop his lush hips, so fleshy and far above where his natural hip should sit. His stomach half covers a limp cock cradled by plush, plump thighs like the tops of muffins. Dimpled hands, soft feet, all pale and blotchy with embarrassment. He’s _generous _and _gorgeous._

Somewhere deep in Crowley’s chest, somewhere behind his stomach he never knew before stirs and drops. Crowley moans. “The Annunciation would have been so much better with this in it.”

“It was just a character study for inspiration,” Aziraphale resists. “Please… don’t look at me like that. I feel, so, so strange with your eyes doing that!”

“So, I mustn’t look,” Crowley croons. “Touchings alright then?” His hands dart forward and rest upon an overflow of hip. There’s no bone in his grip, just flesh. He moans and his cock flickers up as some swelling occurs. It’s fascinating, but better to watch on Aziraphale, the limp dick thickening and lifting. A pudgy hand trembles in the air before finding the sleek slant of Crowley’s ribs. The finger traces the shape, running to his back and then digging in when Crowley’s hands crawl up and cup two generous pecs. He weighs them, surprised by the heft and delighted to know he put it there. The fat presses and pushes into his hands, filling them with surplus and he tightens his grip over the nipples as a shiver crawls around his stomach.

Aziraphale makes a choked little moan.

“Nipples _are_ a thing,” Crowley murmurs, letting his thumb stroke around and over the nubs and listening to Aziraphale’s answering groans. “Good to know.”

“That’s! That’s quite enough of that,” Aziraphale says, face red. He settles a hand on Crowley’s chest and carefully presses him back. “Turnabouts fair play. And I think, well, I imagine that an, er, oral application on the nipple should be nice as well.”

Crowley has no problem with leaning back and letting the angel settle over him. Gravity only drags his giving flesh into bigger form. His thighs press gamely together as he jiggles into position over Crowley. Aziraphale’s hand wanders over Crowley’s cut hips and convex stomach before leaning in and carefully, almost kittenishly, using the tip of his tongue to trace around a small tight nipple. A full-body shudder works over Crowley as Aziraphale widens his tongue and scrapes over the top. And something, something soft brushes and rests over his prick— Aziraphale’s stomach, heavy and weighing on him.

Each sensation is the first for both of them, and with every _swip, swip _of his tongue, every warm movement of stomach, it seems to build and grow almost unbearable until Crowley’s slamming his hands into the bed searching for some release.

Aziraphale pulls back, lips wet, eyes glassy. The angel looks him over, palm sliding over his clavicle to his jaw. “You are such a lovely thing, my dear.” Crowley can’t help the pleased flush blooming across his chest. Aziraphale grins and slowly takes Crowley’s erection in hand. The first touch is like a shock as excessive but dexterous flesh explores him, uncertain. Then Aziraphale’s soft, manicured hand works carefully over the top, spreading the wetness it finds there.

“Faster,” he commands, and Aziraphale does. “Harder. Please, _more!”_ he babbles. Aziraphale sweetly complies. And Crowley is almost there, nearly cries when he sees that Aziraphale’s erection is pressed against and rubbing his plentiful stomach with each jerk and movement. It’s so lush and full and sweet he’s almost—

“I know you’re strong enough that the weight isn’t an issue, but do tell me if you’d like me to back off if that would help,” Aziraphale says, eyes intent on Crowley. Confusion brings the demon down some.

“Whaddya mean,” he says, trying to stay with the pleasure.

“Just if my visage stops you from—”

“Sat—God— SOMEBODY! What, what the hell are you saying!” He levers himself up, pushing Aziraphale off. The angel goes, looking suddenly fretful and wrung out.

“I’m just trying to help!” Aziraphale shouts. “I want you to achieve climax and I'm not sure that _this—_" He takes a handful of giving flesh. "—is good enough."

“_You!_ Crowley accuses. “You and your help!” He shoves the angel against the bed. “Look at me, does it look like I’m not enjoying this?” Crowley’s dick is taut and curved and almost purple and Aziraphale has the gall to look pleased.

“It seems I was correct about the oral application,” he preens.

“Oh, don’t pretend you made that up, we’ve both seen porn and orgies.” Crowley ignores the disappointed look and presses on. “It’s nice but that’s not what’s doing it for me.”

“What do you mean?” And Aziraphale looks utterly lost, seems intractably confused and the angry frustrated coil created upon seeing Aziraphale _dare_ to look hungry finally sends Crowley over the rail. He snaps and a platter of custard and fruit pastries appears in his hand. Aziraphale looks down at them, delight and confusion battle.

“My dear, what are you doing with those?”

“I’m going to feed them to you,” Crowley says.

“B-but I already had three deserts and six other courses!” Aziraphale splutters.

“Yeah, you must be full,” Crowley says, hips shifting. “But you’ll find some space. After all, you want them, don’t you, angel?” Aziraphale has the nerve to look guilty for it. Crowley crawls forward, settling over the angel’s hips. Aziraphale’s thighs are so thick and fleshy that Crowley has to spread his own legs to find space to rest there. Their dicks are nearly lined up but Crowley ignores that for satisfying his fierce and utter frustration with Aziraphale.

Said angel watches all of this with confusion and instinctual desire for custard, but Crowley doesn’t care. He leans forward, holding the pastry and watching Aziraphale’s eyes. The blue is still clear, confused, maybe curious and afraid, but not doubting. That’s enough.

Aziraphale opens his mouth slightly and Crowley pushes the pastry in. Atop the angel, he can actually _feel _the reaction, the hum of his chest, the slight moan, how the legs beneath him tense and curl. All for sugar and dough. Crowley can hardly understand but he loves it. Aziraphale seems suddenly aware of his reaction and he reigns himself in only to find Crowley with another pastry.

“Really, my dear, I don’t think—” Crowley pushes it in, smearing cream over his thumb as the body below him moans and shakes again. He picks up another custard, adds more so there are twenty small bites on the platter, and holds it out. “Get all of it this time, angel.”

Aziraphale takes the cream with a red face and then follows it with his tongue, scraping over Crowley’s hand for every spare calorie and sugar granule. Crowley instinctively ruts forward and sets both of them off groaning. “Nineteen to go,” he whispers selecting another custard. Aziraphale’s eyes are wide and approaching something like understanding, but he still protests.

“Nineteen is too many. I certainly don’t need—”

A snap. “Did I say nineteen? Meant twenty-five.”

Aziraphale groans but surrenders his higher values as Crowley hand-feeds pastry after pastry into his mouth. His slender fingers press and push and challenge more and more food through plump lips and brimming cheeks. The stomach which already was bloated from their full meal has only risen, grown more turgid and tauter as the food gathers in his stretched stomach, ready to digest at a snail’s pace and dole the excess (and there is _excess_) into rich, brimming fat.

By the twenty-sixth pastry, Crowley’s practically vibrating on Aziraphale’s thick thighs. He squirms and presses himself closer until both of their dicks are pressing and rubbing ardently over Aziraphale’s bloated stomach. The angel moans, stuck between delight and discomfort, but he still pistons his hips weakly to meet Crowley’s jerks. Crowley has one hand over both of their erections and the second snakes up and presses between Aziraphale’s lips, the mouth still full of recent sugar and saliva aplenty to coat his fingers. Aziraphale’s tongue swirls and licks the custard and fruit filling from his fingers and Crowley twists, fidgets, and jerks his hand, bumping the bloated belly. Aziraphale’s hand flies to cover his eyes like he can’t face it—

And the words find Crowley.

“Everyone else. Angels… demons… humans. Whether it’s God’s love, Satan’s approval, or money, all of them are hungry. But you’re not like them. You’re content, all pleasure and satiety. Let _them _ache and curdle for every damn thing they don’t have and let me give you every morsel, every bloody pastry, every sweet _thing_ until there’s nothing left in the world. Forget about what you ‘need,’ I’ll have you filled to the brim and then topped off with all that you want. Because there’s nothing that isn’t done right by your possession, your enjoyment. So, just let me _sate_ you.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s eyes are wet, droplets catching on his eyelashes and a look of overcome wonder and adoration spills over his face as a cry bursts from his lips. White shiny ejaculate spirals over Aziraphale’s belly like icing on a cake and the angel is so decadent in this pleasure too that Crowley is helpless but to follow. 

Orgasming has really been undersold, as far as Crowley is concerned. By the time his mind has rebooted and his vision stops sparking, he realizes that Aziraphale is still crying. He tosses the tray to the floor and moves off the short angel, falling quickly into his side. His hand flutters, aghast with himself.

“I’m so sorry about the custard, I should’ve asked—”

“I’m not crying over the c-c-custard you fool! I’m just. Just overwhelmed. That was my first… and with everything else…” Aziraphale sobs, tears running over his soft face. “It was almost too lovely,” he says, like an accusation.

Helplessly fond, Crowley does what helps him when he feels too much and goes very quiet. In consideration for Aziraphale, he lets a hand softly stroke around his soft shoulder. Pressed side to side, Crowley strokes and waits until Aziraphale’s sobs become sniffles and then fade gently into silence.

Crowley realizes that their ejaculate still rests on Aziraphale’s stomach, so he wiles a wet towel into his free hand and carefully wipes, cognizant that the angel is incredibly full. The thought stirs something in him and he’s gobsmacked to realize that orgasm hasn’t set him at capacity for at least a few centuries. Memories rise and swell in him, and he’s reluctantly drawn to the way it felt to _feed _Aziraphale with his own hands, the way blue eyes looked at him with shy pleasure absent guilt at consumption. Just enjoyment. Maybe even if they turn _it _off after this, Aziraphale will let him feed him now and again. It’s important, somehow.

He glances down, startled to find the very angel in question observing his face intently. Crowley’s steady stroking stills, but an arm curls up and a thicker hand rests on his.

Aziraphale looks at him, same awe lighting the blue as before. “You really are a wonder, my dear,” the angel murmurs, holding eye-contact for a long moment before smiling and wiggling up the bed. “Beyond that, to speak for myself, I think we should do this again sometime.”

Crowley lets out a breathless laugh. So he hadn’t blown it. But… “Custard and all?” he asks.

Aziraphale frowns, hand finding his still-turgid stomach. “I do wish you’d given me some hint as to your feelings about my figure. I wouldn’t have wasted so much time dieting.”

“You shouldn’t have denied yourself anyway,” Crowley replies. “Beyond that, bringing you fresh baklava and cinnamon tarts wasn’t incredibly subtle, I admit.”

“No, I suppose not,” Aziraphale says with a small smile. “Now, I imagine you’d like a kip.”

Oh, if he isn’t right on the money. Crowley stretches out over the mattress. Aziraphale is heavy enough to slant the material and he likes the way the bed leads towards the angel.

“We can discuss this tomorrow, with our words, like you’re _supposed to,_” Aziraphale sighs. “Both of us have been involved in too much BDSM to make this kind of mistake, dear.”

“How could I know I had a kink before turning _it_ on?” Crowley complains.

“You must have had some inkling,” Aziraphale says, eyeing his sprawled figure before jerking his eyes up.

Crowley grins, looking over every soft curve and lush swell. “Must have. Breakfast tomorrow, my treat?”

Aziraphale sighs before snapping his fingers. A pile of books appears on the nightstand and he starts thumbing through one. “Sleep well, dear.”

Crowley hums and dims the light. He lets the slight slant of the bed take him to Aziraphale and the night passes sweetly into dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *  
*  
*  
*  
thank you for reading this kinky, soppy, headcanon-y nonsense. I didn't think this would get any attention because I've always felt rather alone in these feelings. All the kind words mean a lot to me. 
> 
> Leave a comment if you like, I will happily reply❣️ (⑅･◡･)✰

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank this fandom for loving soft-Aziraphale as much as I do. ❤️
> 
> if you like Ace Attorney and wg consider this holiday one shot i wrote. similar themes: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21917290


End file.
